


strike a match

by 1001cranes



Series: a burning hell [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gun Kink, Gun play, M/M, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"someone tell me a bedtime story. maybe something like Chris holding a gun to Stiles's head while Stiles blows him. idk. something."</p><p>Or what happens when middle-aged men with guns meet mouthy teens in dark alleys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strike a match

**Author's Note:**

> apparently Chris uses an IMI Desert Eagle. its a big handgun. now you know.
> 
> warnings for unsafe gun kink, underage sex (whatever Stiles is in canon), dubious consent - imo Stiles is into it, but Chris does have him at gunpoint, so. use your judgment.

It will be the first of many times, though they don't know it yet. Stiles likes the danger, the smell of cordite, likes that he can't talk back once Chris shoves him to his knees. Chris finds he doesn't like backtalk. Chris doesn't want to be reminded of who, exactly, is in front of him. _What_. A teenager, a boy, one of his daughter's classmates. 

It's something like an accident. Unavoidable. Chris is still pretending this is something like curiosity, something he hasn't decided on, something he doesn't absolutely  _know_  to be true about himself. And Stiles is clumsy, wrong-footed, graceless, but he knows how to wield a metaphorical knife, to stick it in and twist, and watching the resulting damage behind someone eyes. Chris looks at him just the wrong way in just the wrong moment, and what does it say about Stiles's  _life_  that he can sense when someone is staring at his mouth? And just why?

All it takes is one crack about how badly Chris Argent wants Stiles's cocksucking mouth, _wow_ \- Stiles bets that's the kind of secret that tears a family apart. Might finally send Gerard to the grave with a heart attack. Allison, though - just when she thought her dad was somewhat  _normal_. He's not, though. Just another another fucked up closet case who can't admit what he wants.

"Have you been paying for it?" Stiles asks conversationally. "My dad says that happens a lot. With middle-aged guys, I mean."

Chris presses Stiles against the nearest wall before he thinks about it. He's not really turned on, though Stiles makes a 'is that a gun or are you happy to see me?' joke that has Chris giving him a thin-lipped smile.

"Oh, definitely a gun."

And  _that's_  the fucked up part, the tremble that goes through Stiles's body when Chris pulls out the gun and rests it, casually, against Stiles's jaw. That's the part that starts to turn him on. And that's the part that starts to turn Stiles's on too - inappropriate danger boners, he's got that on lock - and when he licks his lips Chris tilts the gun up just so, until the very tip is resting against Stiles's bottom lip.

The next time Stiles licks, nervously, he tastes metal. 

"I don't have to pay for it," Chris says. Though he's thought about it, if he's being honest; driving to the city with a few twenties tucked into his back pocket. His favorite gun, one of the communal hunter cars. Just to see. "Why should I pay for it when there are so many little sluts like you around?"

It's the fourth time Stiles has licked his lips, run his tongue over the end of the gun and tucked it, briefly, to the inside of his bottom lip. And Stiles blushes, because that hasn't been beaten out of him yet - couldn't have been yet, all virginal and untouched. All the internet porn in the world can't prepare you for another person, their body pressed against yours, their breath on your face, their dick against your leg.

"Not a slut," he says, suddenly on the defensive instead of the offensive. He lost the upper hand probably about the time he licked the end of the gun, in retrospect. "I'm - not that it matters, you don't get to call me that."

"I think I get to call you whatever I want," Chris says, and runs the gun down the side of Stiles's face. Up, down. Up, down. The metal is slightly warmed from Stiles's mouth, but the saliva that clings to it cools on his face, quickly. "I think," he says slowly. "The man with the gun makes the rules."

"I had a sneaking suspicion you belonged to the NRA," Stiles says, "NAMBLA was a surprise though."

Chris snorts. Stiles is young, but not that young. Barely that innocent. 

"On your knees," Chris says instead. A tremor goes all through Stiles's body. He'd've hid it pretty well, Chris thinks, if not for how closely they're pressed together. He slides the end of the gun back under Stiles's jaw and steps back a few inches to give Stiles room to slowly sink down, keeping his head still tilted back, looking at Chris with bright eyes and a trembling lip. Angry. Scared. But not at all unaffected.

"You realize this is fucked up, right?" Stiles grits out. Every word jabs the gun into the soft underside of his jaw. The meat. "On multiple levels?" Stiles's knees hit the pavement with his usual levels of grace and subtlety - low and almost nonexistent, respectively - and the impact stings. Makes him feel vulnerable. Makes him wonder how this started out at 'Something Supernatural Is Happening Must Be Monday' and ended up in the kind of porn Stiles has stumbled over a time or two or three, early in the morning, not clicking but maybe letting his mouse hover for a second to see a few grainy clips. Stiles's hands are nervous, flighty - resting on Chris's lower thighs and kneading, like a cat. His protestation of 'fucked up' probably isn't carrying very far.

"Why don't you open up," Chris says. He pulls the gun from under Stiles's chin to rest, gentle but still heavy, on his lower lip. Chris is - amused. But it's an angry, dark kind of amusement, the kind that crackles under your skin like a live wire, the kind that  _will_  find some kind of outlet, and if Chris's is already right here, on its knees, waiting -- 

"You're such a bastard," Stiles says, and tries to ignore the breathy way he says it. Fuck. He opens his mouth instead, letting his tongue hang a little, feeling  _stupid_ , tense, and completely and utterly fucked up for the way he shuts his eyes and moans when Chris pushes the handgun in.

It's heavy on Stiles's tongue,  _weighty_ , a weird shape in his mouth. He can't help curling his tongue around the edges of it, feeling it out, and hollowing his cheeks as he sucks. It makes his cheekbones - it makes the  _whole thing_  look obscene, as if it wasn't already, and Chris twists the gun a little, marveling at the wet, sloppy sound it makes in Stiles's mouth. The barrel of the gun is long enough that Chris could probably choke him with it, if he tried. He thinks about pushing forward until the trigger guard presses against those swelling, pretty lips --

When Chris takes the gun out of Stiles's mouth, little tendrils of saliva cling to it and break, spattering against Stiles's face, warm and somehow particularly shameful. Viscous and  _sticking_. The muzzle of the gun ends up back under Stiles's jaw, near the hinge of it, which works helplessly. Waiting. 

"Well?"

And Stiles hands scrabble to undo the front of Chris's jeans, to shove them down and pull out Chris's dick, the first one Stiles has ever held that wasn't his own, hot and different and wrong and  _wrong_ , extra wrong, so up close and staring him in the face like this. Close enough to  _smell_ , and Stiles has werewolves to blame for that new and particular sensory habit, he's sure of it.

The gun taps at the hinge of Stiles's jaw again, lightly. A gentle reminder, as far as taps with guns go, and Stiles takes a deep breathe. Maybe two. The sensation on Chris's dick is - probably pretty spectacular, in conjunction with the look on Stiles's face. This is probably the kind of thing you just  _do_ , Stiles decides, grateful for the half step Chris takes forward, sliding the head of his cock over Stiles's bottom lip and into his mouth. 

He feels...  _swollen_  in Stiles's mouth, softer than the gun but much larger, and Chris's free hand - calloused, a little rough, strong and sure - pushes on the back of Stiles's neck, pushes Stiles farther and farther down on his cock until Stiles chokes a little. It's not that Stiles hasn't tentatively explored his gag reflex with a finger or two - he's a teenage boy who contemplated the mechanics of blows jobs somewhat extensively - but Chris's dick is thicker, and he doesn't instinctively back off when Stiles starts to gag. The grip he has on Chris's thighs tightens as he chokes, nose against Chris's pubic hair, eyes watering.

"Breathe through your nose," Chris advises. He looks amused, eyes slid half-shut. "Aren't you the smart one?"

Stiles venomous glares is a pretty textbook 'fuck you', but -- he did sort of  _forget_ , okay, it's not nearly that simple. He feels weird. He feels drunk, almost. Overwhelmed and not sure exactly what he should be focusing on because there's  _so much,_ the hot length of Chris in his mouth, the plush inside of his mouth as Chris thrusts. The ache in his jaw that's only building as time goes, the point of sensation on his throat as Chris drags the gun up and down, following the way Stiles's throat works.

Chris pulls out a little and pushes back in, wetter and sloppier each time, hitting the back of Stiles's throat and holding just long enough for him to gag and get over it, for his eyelids to flutter and slam shut, then startle back open when Chris does it again. Chris's breath is coming faster, pushed out of his mouth in little grunts, face screwed up. Close, Stiles thinks, and sucks as much as he can, tries to swallow around everything in his mouth, the steady flow of precome and Stiles's own spit and the wet gush when Chris finally,  _finally_  comes. It's enough to make Stiles startle, to try to jerk his head back into the tight hold Chris has on the back of his neck, fingers curled in Stiles's hair. Chris holds him there, straining, while Stiles swallows and swallows and swallows.

"You're kind of a bastard," Stiles says again, once Chris has let him go and stepped back, gun reholstered, casually tucking himself back into his jean. Stiles's lips are stinging, his throat is raw. And he's hard enough to hammer nails, no matter how much he's tried to ignore it. He's afraid to get up off his knees in case the twisting fabric sets him off, just enough pressure, just enough friction. He thinks Chris might know it, sees it in the discerning, critical sweep that rushes over him from head to toe. 

"I've been called worse," Chris says, and then - blessedly - walks off and leaves Stiles alone with his fumbling fingers, sucked quickly into his stinging mouth and shoved down the front of his jeans, a handful of quick and punishing strokes before he comes.

**Author's Note:**

> (bonus bit that didn't work for me:
> 
> "I could scream."
> 
> Chris shrugs. Even that tiny movement makes the end of the gun scrape across Stiles's skin again. "You could. Of course, you'd probably end up having to explain to your father what you were doing in this part of town at this time of night. And trust me - a father worries about things like that.")


End file.
